


Contract: Missing Villagers

by TadpoleGlee



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consentacles, Eggs, Impregnation, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Mpreg, Other, Oviposition, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8705248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TadpoleGlee/pseuds/TadpoleGlee
Summary: Beside a lake in the mountains, three villagers have gone missing. Geralt has been contracted to find them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heeroluva](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heeroluva/gifts).



> Many thanks to notearchiver for the beta. Any mistakes remaining are entirely my own.

The lake was calm and still, reflecting the snow capped mountains and trees above. In many ways it was idyllic, but the slowly warming medallion around Geralt’s neck had him on edge. Roach seemed oblivious to any lurking monsters, continuing to plod disinterestedly down the trail.

The villagers hadn’t even dared to ride this far with him, turning back before he started his descent. Whatever was lurking in this calm valley, it had everyone on edge. The details were sketchy; all that he had been told were that three men had gone missing after coming here. No questions had elicited new information, and he had the distinct impression that this was something the villagers wanted to go away as soon as possible and pretend that it had never happened.

The ground was marshy underfoot as Geralt dismounted, mud squelching under his boots. He slackened the bridle on Roach, and the horse wandered off to crop at a patch of tough looking grass. Absently, Geralt checked that his silver sword was still clear for a quick draw, before he started to pace slowly around the margins of the lake.

Bird tracks, animal tracks - no human tracks. No signs of drowners, nor sirens, or any other denizens of the water that might prey on man. No scraps of cloth, no blood - nothing that might give him the slightest clue. No sights, no scents - nothing tickling his senses. If he hadn’t been assured that three men had vanished, he would have written this off as an inept practical joke.

But his curiosity was still piqued, and so he continued to walk the edge of the lake. About a quarter of the way around, in a copse of trees, the glint of sunlight on metal caused him to slow.

There was a steel axe embedded in the tree, abandoned as if in mid swing. Chips of wood littered the ground. Under the trees, the soil was not as marshy, and Geralt could only just make out the indentations of footprints. There had been someone here.

Careful not to obscure anything that might hold a clue, he knelt to examine the scene. The man had clearly been working, the deep stance obvious when Geralt looked closely. There were no marks from fleeing feet, nothing to suggest that the man had seen his attacker. It was as if someone had reached down from the sky and plucked him up, leaving no trace behind.

Thoughtfully, Geralt looked up at the sun-dappled leaves dancing gently in the breeze. None were tattered. None had been torn from the branches. The tree looked to be as intact as a half-felled tree could be. So nothing from the air could have swept the missing man up.

Geralt rose, turning in a circle to scrutinise the scene. Something was starting to nag at him - an intuition that said he was missing something. Something that his eyes had seen but his mind hadn’t registered.

The grove was as still and serene as it ever was, the steel axe in the tree the only remainder of the man who had stood there. It was deeply embedded in the tree, and, having been misaimed, above the notches already hewn. The sap from the freshly cut wood stained the visible blade green, trickles running down the pockmarked handle.

Geralt reached out and ran his fingers through the liquid. It was thick and sticky, not sap at all. 

Blood, or at least a semblance of it.

And the pock marks on the handle...they were not from wear as he had originally thought, but perfect symmetrical circles in a neat row, curled around the wood as if something had gripped the axe.

The attack, when it came, was swift and sudden. His witcher medallion burned cold; he pivoted and drew his silver sword as he was grabbed by the ankle and hoisted into the air. His sword struck, not as cleanly as he intended, but deep enough to fill the air with a shower of green blood that splattered the forest canopy and glowed eerily in the sunlight.

A discordant keening filled the air, and an immense force tore the sword from his grip. Pressure wrapped around his waist, so hard that it forced the air from his lungs. He was yanked through the air, his eyes burning from the force, before he was plunged into the lake.

It was clear what had grabbed him. It was a zeugl, but unlike any that he had encountered before. Its tentacles were long, narrowing to rounded points at the end, and covered with suckers. Its skin was a deep blue, shading to purple, and, the strangest of it all, the zeugl was not attempting to drag him into its churning maw. 

He tried to break free, but he might as well have tried to move the walls of Kaer Morhen with his back. The tentacle around his waist was immovable, and the grip of the one on his leg was unshakeable. As his lungs started to protest their immersion, more tentacles reached out to his free limbs. He was borne upwards, helpless as a kitten, until his face just poked above the surface of the lake.

Geralt breathed deeply. So far, it seemed that the zeugl did not want to kill him, which Geralt approved of. What did it want, though? Nothing from his experience made things clearer. All he could do was wait and see.

The tentacle around his waist constricted before uncoiling to withdraw. The tentacles holding his arms and legs pulled tighter, forcing him into a spreadeagle position, his limbs buoyed up by the water. 

The water was surprisingly warm, soaking through his layers of clothes, weighing him down. More tentacles moved over him, and he felt some of the weight lifting. He lifted his head a little to see a thin tentacle dexterously unfastening his belts, letting his steel sword, potions, and alchemy ingredients drift off into the depths.

Geralt was held so firmly that he couldn't do anything to stop their descent, simply had to watch as his gear disappeared. His control over the situation was nonexistent, and with every passing moment his chance of finding a way out decreased. The zeugl had full possession of him and did not seem inclined to let go.

Another tentacle passed into his field of vision, the dexterous tip flicking slightly as it bent to hook into his tunic. It tensed, pulled, and the waterlogged fabric lost resistance and tore. Enthusiastically, the tentacle widened the rip, tugging and pulling. It was only when the tentacle touched his bare chest that Geralt realised he had been efficiently stripped. 

He raised his face to the surface again and took another breath of air, trying to trust that the tentacles would not let him fall. It was an eerie sensation, floating there in the water, trusting a monster to support him, to let it strip him. Unease clawed at him, and his medallion thrummed like a second heartbeat, but there was nothing that he could do.

The last remnant of his clothing drifted off into the lake, and Geralt was left in nothing but his skin and medallion. The majority of tentacles withdrew, leaving just four holding him. He couldn't see the bulk of the zeugl, and when he tried to move to do so, the tentacles tightened around him, pulling slightly. The warning was clear.

The lightest of touches drew Geralt’s attention back to his body. The thin tentacle had returned and was coiling over his shoulder, tracing out the lines of his body with what seemed to be a strange kind of fascination. The tip was smooth and drew circling patterns that made him shiver in a not unpleasant way. It traced a path over his shoulder, down his chest and over the curve of his hip. Another tentacle appeared and made the same journey on the opposite side. The sensation made his skin prickle in a way that reminded him of other times and the hands of others.

As the tentacles flexed over him, he remembered to breathe. He felt the suckers underneath adhere to his skin, tighten, and then free themselves, leaving the faintest of white marks down the length of his body. There was a sting in the crease of his thigh, and he raised his head just in time to see a thin spine withdrawing into the tip of one of the tentacles.

Heat washed through him, a pleasant warmth that traveled straight to his cock. Some sort of drug, he thought to himself, but somehow the thought didn't bother him as much as it should. Nor the fact that the drug worked on his enhanced immune system. He was not the one in control here; the zeugl was.

Another tentacle made its way up from his feet, caressing his ankles with each coil, rising up over his thighs to rest at the base of his cock, pinning his legs together. The warmth had expanded now into his belly, a hot, tight point in his centre pushing outwards.

Geralt breathed out sharply and sank back into the embrace of the tentacles. The two over his chest pulled back up the length of his body and tentatively flicked his nipples. Geralt shivered at the light touch, and his cock twitched.

More tentacles curled over his body, their tips seeking out the areas that gave Geralt the most pleasure. They caressed his skin in erotic patterns that made the blood flow straight to his cock. They squeezed, constricting him, removing his control. There seemed to be no end to the mass of tentacles that the zeugl could use, and it used them well, coaxing desire from his very pores.

Geralt surrendered.

He closed his eyes and let his head loll back as a tentacle twined around his hair. The rigid end combed through the strands, rubbing his scalp with each pass. His body was alight, every nerve ending thrumming with sensation as the tentacles worked their magic. He writhed as his skin was sensitized, and he arched his hips upwards, his now red and rock hard cock leaking precome into the water surrounding him. The heat in his bloodstream was relentless, expanding to engulf his brain in a haze of sheer need.

Something warm and thick prodded the base of his spine, and Geralt felt liquid seeping from it ooze over his skin. It swept its way downwards in caressing strokes, slicking him up. He tried to move, but the tentacles tightened. He could not pull away, and he could not impale himself on the thick tentacle as he badly wanted to do.

He choked on air as his cock was stroked from balls to tip in one smooth motion, the tentacle coiling and uncoiling in rapid succession. It felt so good and an obscene moan left his lips as he tried to angle his hips to beg for another stroke.

As a tentacle obligingly gripped his cock again, another firmly prodded the tight ring of muscle between the cheeks of his ass. Simultaneously, one pushed inwards and the other coiled and released, and Geralt spasmed as white stars of pleasure turned his mind numb. Hot and slick, the tentacle pressed its way into his body, relentlessly pushing deeper and deeper. It brushed his prostate and he thrashed again until his bindings pulled him tight.

The tentacle around his cock began a gentle rippling motion, up and down, while the one in his ass simply slowed to a stop, filling him firmly. He could not move to encourage anything, he simply had to hang there while being irrevocably pushed towards orgasm.

Just as Geralt was pushed to the edge, the sensations stopped. He felt like he was hanging over an abyss, on the edge of falling into bliss, and he wanted nothing more than to fall, but the tentacles stubbornly refused to return to their pleasuring.

Pride kept his mouth closed around the words that wanted to escape. He wouldn’t beg the zeugl for his release; he wouldn’t give up that last part of himself. No matter how much he longed for it.

Another tentacle slid down his spine, warm and slick with fluid, pressing against his already filled hole. This one felt even larger than the last, and it slowly started to worm its way into his body. A tentacle returned to play with his cock, another teased his testicles. It was like nothing that he had ever felt before, and Geralt thrashed helplessly as he was again teased to the brink of his control. 

The pleasure was indescribable as the second tentacle pushed into him, and the two twitched inside him. They were warm and thick, brushing against his prostate with even the slightest movement.There was no room for anything else in his mind but the white hot pleasure that seared through him, matching the white hot searing of his medallion on his chest. But the medallion was wrong, the zeugl was not a monster that needed to be slain, it was a partner, an equal, as sentient and feared as much as he, a Witcher, was.

Under the expert touch of those glorious tentacles, Geralt could feel his orgasm approaching once more, and knew that this time, there would be no holding back. The zeugl must have sensed this, as he felt another tentacle pressing into his hole. He didn’t think that he would be able to take it, but his inhuman body stretched immeasurably wide to accommodate. He would be sore, he would be torn, he would be split, but that didn’t matter in this moment, because he was filled with pleasure, and he was so close...oh so close...

Everything stopped, and Geralt screamed his frustration to the uncaring sky as the lake ebbed around him. All pride crumbled and broke under the wave of longing and desire that crashed over him. His lips formed words that made no sense, an incoherent chant begging for the return of the touches that brought him so much pleasure.

The bliss returned for one indelible moment as every tentacle united in purpose to push Geralt over the edge. That was enough to send him freefalling, and as he watched his belly distend from the writhing tentacles, his orgasm roared over him. He came into the water, shaking helplessly as the tentacles continued to pleasure him. The three tentacles deep inside continued to thrust in short jerky motions, feeling as if they were pushing deeper and deeper with every jerk . He convulsed again in dry orgasm, his movements sending his come spiralling in eddies in the water. He could barely draw breath as his unrelenting, wonderful torment continued.

Pleasure turned to pain turned to pleasure as there was no slow in the tentacle’s stimulating motions. There seemed to be something driving the zeugl now as it plundered Geralt’s body. Its tentacles roamed freely over his body, caressing his skin and leaving sucker marks all over as if in claim. Unable to resist, Geralt felt his mind erode as he was used. His body ached. Bruises flowered on his skin. The water around him was turning red. 

He never wanted it to end.

Between one heartbeat and the next, every tentacle stiffened and shuddered, and Geralt felt a rush of scalding heat within his body. It scorched its way through his bowels, pushing outwards in a great flood that extended his belly obscenely. He groaned at the sensation, his cock giving a painful heave as another dry orgasm was wrung from his shattered body.

Just when it seemed that the flood within would never stop, it did, but Geralt was given no time to relax. Barely noticeable, he was stung several times in quick succession, and the heat in his blood cooled unnaturally. It was then he felt the pressure again, as something was pushed deep into his body. Once, twice, three times, he felt the pressure, and watched his stomach bulge and ripple.

The tentacles withdrew, and Geralt mourned their loss. He felt the hot fluid ooze out of his body and saw the water around him change as it was contaminated. But his stomach only flattened as little bit, and deep within, he could still feel something. 

A tentacle returned and caressed his face. Geralt turned his face into it relishing the touch, but then the tentacle fell away, limp. His wrists and ankles were released abruptly, and he caught himself with a startled splash, treading water, turning to face the zeugl.

It hung in the water, all life and vitality drained from it. Its mouth was closed, and every tentacle hung limp. There was nothing left of his partner, of the creature that had shared itself with him. It was dead. And yet, it still lived on, in a way.

Geralt awkwardly paddled his way to the shoreline, hampered by the swelling in his belly. He pulled himself out onto the marshy shore and simply lay there, staring up at the sky, his hands absently cradling his distended flesh.

The zeugl had chosen him. The other men had proven to be unworthy of carrying her eggs, had been unable to cope with her tentacles deep inside them. They had been torn apart, where he, Geralt, had survived. Their bodies had nourished the mother until Geralt had come and been chosen to carry her offspring.

She was so different than the rest of her kind. She could not reproduce as they did. She had to seek out hosts for her offspring, giving up her own life so that her children might survive and thrive. Her final gift had been the knowledge of how to care for the eggs, how to nurture them to ensure their survival. 

He had been entrusted with the mother’s greatest gift. He would not fail her.

Something burned hot around his neck, and Geralt pulled it off, letting it fall into the mud. It did not matter any more. The mother’s gift in his blood made everything clear. Even a Witcher was not immune to her. 

And through her, a Witcher would have children.


End file.
